In Coimbra, I once attended a talk by a digital marketing specialist who used a metaphor to describe social media: investing in social media is like living in a dream house that you rent; it may be where you live, but it is not yours. At any moment, it can disappear. You have no control. It has an owner. You can be evicted without defence or say. One must be careful with the investments made in it.

Social media feeds on the information we upload daily. It is where we share with our community. Many do so with the expectation of turning their seeds into something viral, extraordinary, coveted and “liked” by millions. Others, like me, share their content with a small circle of friends, in the mistaken belief that we are communicating with our entire network through a single platform.

As I said before, I was born in ’79 and used to play marbles. There are months when I share nothing at all. Only when I really feel like shouting something specific to the world. And often, days or hours or minutes later, I delete it without thinking. When it comes to brands I work with, I do it seriously. It is different. There is purpose. There are numbers. Ratios. Clear objectives. Besides, I understand the game better now. I better understand the intent. But the specialist’s lesson stayed with me.

June 2017 is an unforgettable month.
In a way, it connects with this theme.
Let me explain.

During a routine check-up, Rute is admitted to Faro District Hospital. Lack of amniotic fluid, they said. We need more “water” in our Olívia’s “pool”. I received the news in shock, but with that warrior spirit my father taught me to summon whenever something serious touches us. Health issues, above all, are what can destroy us if we do not put on Clark Kent’s cloak. And my father taught me well how to wear it.

I do not remember many details. I do not want to. I prefer to remember the unconditional love I was living at that moment. Supporting my wife. Supporting Olívia’s mother. Supporting Olívia. Supporting my “future” first daughter.

And so it was. Admitted.

I visited them whenever I could. Always with my phone on. Always nearby. Always present. My thoughts were with them. I carried on with “my life”, but my mind was there. I visited clients, worked at the office, browsed the internet, wrote and organised emails. I took care of our Tofo. I tried to finish the nest that had not had as much preparation time as we had wished.

Rute remained in the obstetrics ward for 12 days. We followed rituals carefully: snacks, small treats in the form of food, clothes, personal items. Games for distraction, a magazine, a film. And conversation. A lot of conversation. Me, my family, her family – we all tried to support and comfort her, showing that everything was fine.

I remember that Rute felt well and even expected to go home for the weekend one Friday. She was tired of being in hospital. She felt ready to leave. We tried for discharge, but we did not succeed. The doctor refused. She remained admitted.

That Monday, I went to the hospital with my mother. In between the usual rituals, I think we found ourselves playing cards while Rute underwent a routine CTG. And during that exam, our Olívia’s heartbeat began to drop…

For those who have been parents, a baby’s heartbeat is overwhelming. It is intense. Fast. Between 120 and 160 beats per minute. That is what the CTG measures. The heart rate of the little one – in this case, my Princess.

The beats began to fall.From 160 to 140 and a machine beeping.
From 140 to 120 and a nurse enters the room.
From 120 to 110 and two nurses enter…

Am I the one dealing the cards?…

From 110 to 100 and three nurses in the room.
From 100 to 90 and – SUDDENLY! – doctors, people, chaos, our bags thrown onto our laps and we are pushed out of the room.

My mother and I are urgently escorted out of the obstetrics ward…

85 and Rute is rushed on a stretcher to the operating theatre, surrounded by people, in a commotion I see as if in super slow motion.

I have time to look at her, confidently, smiling with my eyes and telling her: Everything will be fine, my love. “I love you. You’re so strong.”

She goes in, the doors close, and I no longer see her or hear anything.

My mother and I, numbed by the episode, press the lift button, wait, go down and head to the car to drop off the belongings thrown at us. We were ready to go home – but we did not. Our judgement took us to the car just to release the weight, while trying to process what had happened.

Super slow motion: feet on the ground. Fast steps. My poor mother cannot keep up, already out of breath. The car is not here, it is there; but if I go this way it is faster. I do not care about traffic. I do not care about cars. They can stop. I am unstoppable. Untamed. Drop this in the car and go back. Why am I even going to the car? Calm down, Bruno. Clark Kent, remember? Breathe. Wait for your mother. Show her care. She is scared too. Damn. Hell. Shit. What is this? Films. Cinema. Poltergeist. Chucky. Schindler’s List. Requiem for a Dream. Nightmare on Elm Street. An American Werewolf in London. Even bloody Marley. What is this? There is the car. Open. Throw things in without thinking. Close. Done. Let’s go back.

In those 15 minutes, I thought of everything. Dark things. Ugly things. What if the baby’s heart stops? What if something happens to Rute? The human mind cannot escape its deepest, most disturbing thoughts. It happened to us. Not to others – to us. And I love cinema. And cinema has everything. And in that walk, hundreds of hours of dramatic films ran through my mind…

I sat on the solitary bench in front of the operating theatre doors. Alone. No one around. What anguish. My poor mother remained downstairs. Even worse. No one. No one passed by.

Film scenes in my head. My mind fighting alone.

In the middle of that silent monologue, the doctor comes out, serious, walking towards me. I see her, but remain trapped in my internal storm…

Super Slow Motion.

The doctor says: “She’s so beautiful!”

Super Slow Motion.

“Your daughter!”
…
…
…

Tears of joy explode from me. I collapse into silent crying, absorbing the moment.

I ask: “And the mother?”

“Everything is fine. She’s in recovery.”

I did not even know what recovery meant.

“Everything is fine” was enough.

The doctor takes me with her. We enter the doors. Walk through the corridor. People approach me, smiling, reassuring me with kind words about Olívia. I retain none of them. I only want to see my wife.

Normal speed now. Tunnel vision. Follow the doctor.

And suddenly, I see this:

Seven or eight professionals surround me, telling me she is my daughter. I cannot speak. Only cry. Controlled. Separated by glass. And by a transparent box. I remember my eyes filled with tears. And I remember her – there, inside that small box, with tubes, so fragile, so tiny.
I manage to take photos.

I begin to come back to myself. I hear the machines, the alarms. I cannot touch her. Only glass. And I cry a bit more. I ask about Rute. They take me to her. A small room. I felt I was on top of her. I gave her no space. I saw it in her eyes.

She looked like she had fought a dragon, a rhinoceros, an elephant and a lion – all at once. And she won. My wife. A heroine. Strong. Brave. A warrior. So proud.

I come back to myself.
For the first time, I feel strong.
Clark.
Me.

She asked about Olívia. I said something I do not remember. We stayed calm for a few seconds. I touched her. Gently. Kissed her forehead and lips. My warrior.

After that… I remember everything and nothing. Days without sleep. Heart in my hands. Fear in my eyes. Uncertainty in every second.

Prematurity is serious. Very serious.
And the professionals we have are incredible people.
We have no words.

We were surrounded by heroes. True greatness. We are nothing compared to them. Just observers of life’s uncertainty.

Rute spent six days recovering. Fighting dragons takes time. She recovered incredibly fast. She fought relentlessly. Feeding, holding, caring for Olívia. Every small act mattered. We did not know which moment would be the last.

That is the truth. For me, my first daughter brought an overwhelming, violent, abrupt experience. I could not sleep with them. Only during visiting hours. It was hard. Watching time stretch endlessly. Watching her struggle to gain weight.

Six days of battle. Around us, other babies. Some even smaller. Less than five months. So fragile. So much pain.

A unique life experience.
And one day, Olívia gained 20 grams.

That is why I began this text with Coimbra… because days later, like a cry of victory, we shared this on Facebook:

It is all there. Emotion. People. Memories. Even those no longer here.

When Olívia improved and was discharged, it was time to go home. And life continued. 24/7 connected. Protectors of the most precious gem in the world. No price. Shifts. Rituals. Sleep rotations. I would watch her breathe for hours.

This episode added more than 1,000 kilometres to my metaphor. In fact, 2,000. We are now at 5,000 kilometres. The prematurity of my dear and beloved daughter Olívia gave us a learning experience unlike any other. It made us different people. For so many and varied reasons. Even today, whenever I look at her, I remember the days of blue gowns and machines… and both B16 and our personal lives carry that forward in the years that followed.

And now?

If Rute fought a dragon, a rhinoceros, an elephant and a lion — all at once — and brought this wonderful being into the world; if the professionals at Faro District Hospital managed to help at every second, every gesture, every glance; if everyone around us praises us, encourages us and strengthens us with heartfelt words, genuine looks and contagious energy; if, when I close my eyes, cinema is nothing more than the seventh art; if I have health…

And now?